


When The Days Are Cold

by quetzalaten



Category: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel - Michael Scott
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quetzalaten/pseuds/quetzalaten
Summary: Machiavelli and Dagon travel to northern Scotland on a mission for Machiavelli's Dark Elder master.
Relationships: Dagon/Niccolò Machiavelli (Nicholas Flamel)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	When The Days Are Cold

Niccolò Machiavelli smoothed his white silk shirt, as he stepped out of the black limousine onto the sidewalk.

His master had requested that he procure an artifact from the ruins of a castle in the north of Scotland, and had instructed him to travel by leygate so that he did not have to go through the mortal security checkpoints at the airport. Aten had given him directions for how to find and use the gate, and Machiavelli was feeling confident that the mission would be a success.

“You look pleased with yourself already,” his driver said. Machiavelli looked up at Dagon, “I think that this will be a quick trip. Everything seems to be in order, and we are making good time so far.”

Dagon made a bubbling sound in his throat which might have been laughter. “What is it?” Niccolò asked. The fish-man glanced down at him, “I just hope that you are right. Arrogance can often be the fatal flaw of intelligent humani.”

“Are you saying that I am arrogant?” Machiavelli said, amused. Dagon tilted his head slightly, “I also said that you are intelligent, if that makes you feel better.”

“Yes, that does make me feel better, thank you,” the immortal said, looking at his friend affectionately, “Now, come on, we have places to be.”

Machiavelli walked briskly down the street, Dagon following close behind. They slipped into the back of a shop that had a ‘For Sale’ sign on the door.

“This is where my master told me to go,” the Italian said, searching the building, “so the gate must be here somewhere. They said that it would be impossible to miss.”

Dagon helped him look. Pulling back a dusty curtain, he found a smooth wall outlined by an ornate gold frame. “Niccolò,” he called to the immortal. Machiavelli hurried over to him, and placed his hand on the wall, letting his aura seep into the surface, feeling for the leygate’s power. The portal sprung to life in front of him.

“Yes!” Niccolò grinned, “Good work, Dagon.” The fish-man nodded in acknowledgement.

“My master said that this particular one would stay open for a day, and then close again for another year, so we must act quickly,” Machiavelli said, stepping into the leygate.

Dagon entered after him. They were instantly hit by a blast of cold wind. A snowstorm buffeted against them. It felt as though a million tiny shards of glass were falling from the sky. Machiavelli and Dagon took a few steps into the storm...

...And the leygate closed behind them.

Spinning around quickly, Niccolò rushed towards it. “No, no, no!” he yelled, slamming his fists into the snow where the portal had been just moments ago.

“They didn’t say anything about it closing this fast!”

“Perhaps it needs to recharge?” Dagon suggested.

“Recharge?” Machiavelli exclaimed, “And how long do you think that might take? A year? Or was my master wrong about that as well?”

The fish-man shrugged.

Niccolò shivered in the cold. He was beginning to regret choosing the light silk shirt that he was wearing. The falling snow was strong enough to knock him back a few steps, bumping into Dagon.

“This is fantastic,” Machiavelli said sarcastically, “We are trapped in a blizzard, we have no way to get back home, and I am not even wearing a jacket.”

“You are worried about your clothes?” Dagon questioned, his voice bubbling incredulously. Machiavelli ignored him. He looked around, “It seems that there is a cave in that direction. Perhaps it is warmer inside?”

They walked towards the cave. When they got inside, Dagon stayed near the entrance to keep watch.

Machiavelli sat down against the wall, “It is freezing here.”

“I told you to wear a coat before we left home,” Dagon said to the shivering immortal. Machiavelli glared at him, “It wasn’t this cold in Paris.”

“I would have expected you to have checked the weather before we arrived,” the fish-man said, looking at Niccolò. The Italian sighed, “I had other things on my mind.”

Dagon laughed, “So unprepared!” Machiavelli smiled, “I know, you are right.”

Hours passed as they waited for the storm to stop. But the snow kept coming down, falling relentlessly outside the tiny cave.

Niccolò pulled his legs close to his body, trying to conserve heat. His breath froze as he exhaled. Using a tiny amount of his aura, he heated the air around his body. The Italian knew that he couldn’t keep it up for very much longer, or he would risk using too much of his energy.

_I probably have about thirty minutes before my body shuts down,_ Niccolò thought grimly. He was already losing feeling in his hands and feet.

Machiavelli felt panic rising in his chest. _I don’t want to die._ He would have thought that he would be ready, after centuries of extended life. But as he watched the snow falling outside the cave, all he could think about was how little he had actually done. All of the things that he still wanted to see, to accomplish. Niccolò breathed slowly, trying to bring his emotions back in check.

He noticed Dagon staring at him. “A-are you n-not c-cold?” The other man shook his head, “My people can survive in much lower temperatures than humani can endure.”

“Oh,” Machiavelli said, pursing his lips, “Then I s-suppose that you will be q-quite f-fine.” He wrapped his arms around his torso, hands shaking from the freezing temperature. _Why didn’t I wear a jacket?_

Dagon walked over to him, “Are you alright, Niccolò?” The soft tone in his voice made the Italian look up in surprise. He considered lying to his old friend, but realized that there was no point.

“No,” he said quietly, closing his eyes. “May I?” Dagon asked, gesturing towards the ground beside him. “Go ahead,” Machiavelli said, mouth twitching into a smile. The other man sat down, and pulled the immortal close to his body.

Dagon gently took Niccolò’s hands. The warmth from his driver’s skin eased the shaking. “Thank you,” Machiavelli murmured, his head resting on Dagon’s shoulder. “It is no trouble at all,” he replied, his round eyes watching Niccolò carefully.

Machiavelli let Dagon wrap his arms around him, grateful for the extra body heat. He didn’t know why, but his heart was beating faster than usual. _Perhaps this is a side effect of the hypothermia._

“We need to get you somewhere warmer,” Dagon said, “I don’t think that you will last much longer like this.” Niccolò opened his eyes, “W-what makes you s-say that?”

“Your temperature is dropping rapidly,” the other man said matter-of-factly, “Within the hour, you will be dead.” Machiavelli chuckled, “We n-need to work on your b-bedside manner.”

The Italian tried to get up, but his muscles felt frozen in place. Dagon quickly scooped him up into his arms, “You are in no condition to walk.”

Machiavelli didn’t protest, but let himself enjoy the heat from his companion’s body. Dagon started out of the cave, carrying the frozen immortal.

After they had travelled for a while, Machiavelli saw the ruins of a castle in the distance. “Look!” he exclaimed.

“Is that our objective?” Dagon asked, “It looks much less... attractive than I thought it would.”

Machiavelli nodded, “I am sure of it. Let’s get closer to the castle, perhaps we can find the materials to make a fire.”

They made their way inside, and Dagon gently laid Niccolò down on the ground. He gathered wood from the ruins and started a small flame to warm his companion. The fish-man sat beside Machiavelli. “Is that better?” he asked, putting a hand on the immortal’s shoulder.

“Yes, thank you,” Machiavelli said, taking Dagon’s hand in his own, “Most of my acquaintances would have left me to die.” The other man nodded, “You are not wrong.”

Niccolò tried not to take offence to that. “So, where do you think the artifact is?” he asked, looking at his surroundings for the first time. “I have no idea,” Dagon replied, “What is it supposed to look like?”

“It is a stone tablet, with a serpentine pattern on it,” Machiavelli said, trying to remember what Aten had told him about the relic. “What is special about it?” Dagon asked, “Is it enchanted?”

“I don’t think so,” the Italian said, “My master just wants it for a collection of some sort. They didn’t give me any specifics.” Dagon nodded, “I will help you look for it.”

The two men searched the ruins. Machiavelli tried to stay as close to the fire as possible to stay warm. He brushed snow away from the old stones of the castle, hoping to find the artifact for his master.

He noticed a rectangular rock sticking out from the snow. Feeling triumphant, he used his sleeve to wipe the crumbled pieces of the wall away from the tablet. Niccolò stood back, a victorious smile on his face. On the floor lay a small grey stone carved with Celtic knots. The shapes curved in intricate designs to form a curling serpent. “There you are,” Machiavelli whispered, picking it up off of the ground.

He walked back over to the fire. “Dagon,” he called, “I found it.”

The fish-man returned to his side, “It is very small.”

“Easier to carry that way,” Machiavelli said, looking at his friend. The Italian carefully slid the artifact into his bag, and sat down again.

“I wish we had brought some food,” Machiavelli said, “I haven’t eaten since this morning.” Dagon looked at him, “I would offer to find you something, but you probably would not eat it.” Niccolò laughed, “I’m afraid you are right.”

Dagon crouched down beside the immortal. “These ruins are quite interesting for something made by mortal hands,” the fish-man said, “It almost reminds me of my home.”

Niccolò looked up at him, “Really?”

His companion nodded, “The architecture is very reminiscent of some of the buildings in our cities. I can almost picture my people going about their daily tasks, and the children playing in the streets.” Dagon’s glassy eyes shone with tears, “I would like nothing more than to be with them again.”

Machiavelli put a hand on Dagon’s shoulder, “Do you want to talk about it?” The fish-man shook his head, “Such things are best left in the past.”

“If you need anything at all, let me know,” Niccolò said softly. Dagon looked at him curiously.

“You are a very strange human, Niccolò,” the fish-man said, blinking slowly at the immortal. Machiavelli smiled, “Human? I thought we were ‘humani’ to you?”

“You must be a bad influence on me,” Dagon replied, turning back towards the fire. “Perhaps I am,” Machiavelli said, leaning against the wall.

“Now that we have the artifact, we just have to wait for the leygate to recharge,” the Italian yawned, stretching his arm around Dagon’s shoulders.

“Hopefully it will still work,” the other man said, “since your master did think that it could only be activated once a year.”

Machiavelli pursed his lips, “Let’s think positively about the situation for now.”

“If you insist,” Dagon said, laying down on the ground beside the immortal, “When should we return to the leygate?”

“Tomorrow,” Machiavelli said confidently, “I’m sure that it will be recharged by then.”

“I do hope that you are right, Niccolò,” Dagon muttered, “otherwise we will have a very long trip ahead of us.”

The two men lay on opposite sides of the fire, watching each other.

“Niccolò,” Dagon began, “you are going to freeze over there.” Machiavelli blushed, “I am fine, really.” Shaking his head, Dagon gestured for the Italian to come over to him. Sighing, Machiavelli moved over, and pressed his body against his companion. Dagon wrapped his arms around Niccolò to keep him warm. “Good night, Mac,” he said quietly.

“ _Buona notte_ ,” Niccolò whispered.

As they lay beside each other, Machiavelli realized that he felt content for the first time in many years. _This is ridiculous,_ he thought, his face flushing, _you have no reason to_ _get_ _emotional_ _over_ _this_ _._ And yet, as he watched Dagon’s chest rise and fall as he slept, the only way he could describe how he felt was... happy.

A sudden sound from outside the ruins made Dagon’s eyes snap open, “We are not alone.”

Machiavelli started to get up, but Dagon grabbed his wrist. “I will go,” he said quietly, his face inches away from the Italian’s. Without thinking, Niccolò closed the gap between the two of them, pressing his lips against Dagon’s.

“What was that for?”

Machiavelli looked away, “Just... be careful.”

The other man tilted his head slightly, “It is not like you to worry about someone else.” Niccolò glanced at him, “I must be suffering from exposure to the cold. I am not thinking clearly.”

Dagon looked at him for a moment, then nodded, and shifted his attention to the sounds that were coming from beyond the walls. He crept away, through the dark, until Machiavelli couldn’t see him anymore. As he waited for his friend to return, the Italian felt like he was holding his breath. _Stop worrying, you can look after yourself._ But it wasn’t him that he was anxious for.

After what felt like an eternity of silence and darkness, Dagon appeared in front of him. He shook his head, “False alarm. I couldn’t find anything.” As the words left Dagon’s mouth, Niccolò noticed movement behind him.

“Dagon,” Machiavelli whispered, “what is that?”

A strange creature was pacing back and forth, just out of sight. From the waist up, it looked like a man, but it had an elongated head with a pig’s snout and arms that looked just a bit too long. Below the waist it had the body of a horse. As it got closer, Niccolò gasped in horror. _It doesn’t have skin._ He could see the monster’s flesh, red and pulsing, as it walked into the moonlight.

Dagon looked where the Italian was pointing, and stopped moving. “That, Niccolò,” he began, his voice bubbling, “is a Nuckelavee.”

Machiavelli glanced at Dagon, “I’ve never heard of it.” His companion looked surprised, “I thought you always say that you know everything?” Niccolò glared at him, “This is not the time for jokes.”

“You are unfortunately correct,” Dagon said, moving so that he was in front of the immortal, “Nuckelavee kill for the fun of it, and the only thing that can stop one is fresh water, which we do not have right now.”

“Wonderful!” Machiavelli said sarcastically, “Will it let us go if we don’t provoke it?”

“My dear friend, I don’t think you understand me,” the fish-man said softly, laying a hand on Niccolò’s shoulder, “If we don’t destroy this creature, we will both perish.”

“Oh,” the Italian whispered. He looked at the Nuckelavee again. It was staring right at him. “Can it speak?” Machiavelli asked his companion. “Of course it can,” Dagon said, “but your silver tongue will not be able to save us.” Niccolò bit back a retort, and stood up, walking towards the creature.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dagon hissed, “Get back here!” Machiavelli shook his head, “If it can speak, then I can reason with it.”

“Stop being stubborn! It will kill you!”

“You don’t know that,” Niccolò said, “And I don’t want to destroy a sentient being without first attempting to negotiate with it.”

Dagon sighed, “Just don’t get too close to it.”

“I won’t,” Machiavelli promised.

Approaching the Nuckelavee, the immortal raised a hand in greeting.

“ _F_ _easgar math_ ,” Niccolò began in Gàidhlig. The creature’s gaze followed the Italian’s movement.

Suddenly, Machiavelli felt as though his head was splitting open. He cried out, falling to his knees on the ground. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and when he lifted his fingers to his nose, they came away covered in blood. A grating sound hammered at his eardrums. Sobbing, Niccolò curled in a ball, holding his throbbing head in his hands.

_Can you hear me, humani?_

The voice was distant, and was like nothing Machiavelli had ever heard in his life. It seemed to be coming from deep within his skull, but it echoed around the ruins as well, reverberating off of the ancient walls.

“Are you talking to me?” Niccolò asked the Nuckelavee, his own voice sounding fragile compared to the creature’s.

_I am in your mind._

“Oh,” the Italian said, “That is quite an... interesting feeling.”

_Are you here to plead for your life, humani?_

“Not to plead,” Machiavelli said, “but to come to some sort of arrangement where we can all leave happily.”

_I have never known happiness, humani._

Niccolò felt dizzy from the Nuckelavee’s voice, and realized that he had stopped breathing. Opening his mouth, he gasped, but couldn’t form words.

“Niccolò...” Dagon warned, as he noticed the creature coming closer to the immortal.

_I wonder what you taste like?_

Machiavelli gulped, trying to get air in his lungs. A noxious cloud had formed around the Nuckelavee, and had spread to where the Italian was crouching.

_You should not have_ _invaded my home, humani._

The creature growled, causing the scent of its breath to hit Machiavelli in the face. The Italian coughed, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him.

“No!” Dagon cried, “It’s breath is poison, Niccolò!”

“You don’t say?” Machiavelli muttered, bending over in pain. His vision blurred, and the sound of Dagon’s voice was becoming muffled, as though a pillow was being held over Niccolò’s ears.

“Dagon...” the Italian groaned. The room was spinning out of control. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, looking up at the ceiling. He could hear his companion fighting the Nuckelavee, but he couldn’t see them.

Concentrating, Machiavelli attempted to use his aura to expel the poison from his body. _It’s not working_ , he realized, fear rising inside of him. He turned his head to look for Dagon, and came face-to-face with the Nuckelavee instead.

And then, the Italian did something that he had not done in centuries. Something that he would never admit to doing, even to his closest associates.

Niccolò Machiavelli screamed.

***

Dagon heard a shrill sound from across the room. _Niccolò?_

Getting up from where the Nuckelavee had thrown him, the fish-man saw the creature pinning Machiavelli to the wall.

Niccolò was struggling in vain against the Nuckelavee, but was too weakened by the poison to do anything against the monster’s strength.

The creature bit down on the Italian’s shoulder, tearing his skin. Niccolò screamed again, his eyes rolling back in his head as he fainted from the pain. Before the Nuckelavee could bite him once more, Dagon jumped on it, pulling the monster away from his friend.

Machiavelli slumped to the ground, blood pouring from the open wound left by the creature’s jaws. Dagon glanced over at the Italian. _Is he still alive?_ He saw the immortal move slightly, and felt relief wash over him. “Mac!” he called, the name popping in his mouth, “We need fresh water!” Niccolò looked up at his companion blankly. Sighing, Dagon fought the Nuckelavee away from the Italian. _If_ _I_ _could_ _get closer to_ _the_ _fire, and melt some of this snow..._

The fish-man used a knife to slice into the creature’s skin. Howling in pain, the Nuckelavee kicked Dagon with its hind legs, sending the man across the room. The creature ran to the other side of the ruins, watching Dagon warily.

Wincing, Dagon started to stand. He felt a hand grab his leg. Looking down, he saw Machiavelli struggling to stay awake. “Dagon,” he murmured, “let me help you.”

The Italian looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was a sickly grey colour. Blood was still coming out of his nose, and his shoulder was torn raw and bare, almost all the way to the bone. His aura was trying to heal him, but the Nuckelavee’s pestilence was somehow preventing it from working.

_If I don’t end this soon, Niccolò is going to die._ Dagon’s chest hurt at the thought of losing his friend.

“Stay here, Mac,” the fish-man said, “you are too weak to fight.”

“You can’t do this alone,” Machiavelli insisted, grasping on to Dagon’s arm. “Yes, I can,” the other man said, “I have fought much worse before.”

“No, I can he-” Niccolò stopped talking, coughing up blood. Dagon felt as though his heart was breaking. He gently sat the immortal down on the ground. “You are dying, my friend,” he said softly, “I have to destroy the creature and get you somewhere comfortable.”

“What?” Niccolò whispered, eyes widening, “No, no...” Dagon laid his hand on the side of the Italian’s face, “I am sorry that I could not protect you. I am so sorry...”

“It is not your fault...” Machiavelli said, reaching up to gently touch Dagon’s hand, “I was foolish to think that I could negotiate with something that powerful.”

Dagon saw tears in the immortal’s eyes.

“I’m scared, Dagon,” Niccolò said quietly.

“I know,” the other man whispered.

Machiavelli looked at Dagon, “Before... before I die-”

“No, don’t talk like that...”

Niccolò shook his head, “I cannot leave this unsaid.” He caressed Dagon’s face, smiling slightly.

“My dearest friend. We have spent so many years in each other’s company, and yet I would easily spend another immortal lifetime with you,” Machiavelli murmured. “Oh Niccolò...” Dagon said softly.

Niccolò paused for a moment, clasping his companion’s hand tightly. “I love you, Dagon,” he whispered.

“Why would you wait until now to say this?” Dagon asked, holding the immortal in his arms. Niccolò laughed, tears streaking down his face, “It never seemed like a good time to mention it.”

“Oh no... no...” Dagon said, pulling Machiavelli closer to him, “I don’t want to lose you, Niccolò.” The Italian hugged him back with one arm, the other hanging by his side.

“You should finish the fight,” Niccolò said gently, “There is nothing that you can do for me, but I don’t want you to die as well.”

Dagon carefully placed Machiavelli onto the ground, “I will come back as soon as possible.”

“I will be here,” Niccolò said, smiling at his companion.

The fish-man took one last look at the immortal, and then turned back to the Nuckelavee. It was still waiting for him, watching from the shadows of the ruins.

Dagon slowly walked towards the fire.

_What are you doing?_

The creature’s voice whispered in his mind. Ignoring it, Dagon continued, and used his hands to carry snow close enough to the fire to melt it down into fresh water.

The Nuckelavee started towards him. Dagon waited until it was almost on top of him, then threw the fresh water onto its skin.

The monster let out an earsplitting scream. Its body hissed and crackled where the water had made contact.

“Got you,” Dagon snarled. He drove his knife straight through the Nuckelavee’s chest. The creature thrashed on the ground in pain, then went still, turning to dust in front of the fish-man’s eyes.

Dagon stopped to catch his breath, then ran over to Machiavelli.

The immortal’s eyes were closed. _No,_ _please no._ _Not yet_ _._ Crouching down, Dagon checked Niccolò’s pulse. It was weak, but he was still alive.

Sighing with relief, Dagon carefully moved Machiavelli closer to the fire. Removing the other man’s shirt, he inspected the wound. To his surprise, it seemed to be slowly healing, the flesh and skin stitching itself back together with the help of Niccolò’s aura. When he looked at the immortal’s face, he noticed that the colour was returning to his cheeks. With the Nuckelavee dead, its pestilence was dispersing on the wind, allowing Machiavelli’s aura to repair the damage done to the Italian’s body.

Dagon sat down beside Machiavelli, “I’m going to get you home, my friend. Sleep well, and heal.”

He settled in for the rest of the night, Niccolò’s head resting gently on his lap.

***

Niccolò awoke to see two round eyes staring back at him, their rainbow colours dancing in the dim light of a fireplace. “Dagon?” he muttered, as he realized that he was looking at his old friend. Glancing around, he saw that they were back in his house in Paris.

“How are you feeling?” the fish-man asked. Niccolò felt Dagon’s hand holding on to his own.

“I am feeling quite alright. I am assuming that I have you to thank for that?”

“Well, you certainly weren’t any help,” Dagon said _._

“I’m sorry,” Machiavelli murmured, his gaze soft as he looked at Dagon. “You have nothing to apologize for, Mac,” the fish-man said, his voice bubbling. Niccolò laughed. Dagon was the only person who ever called him ‘Mac’ to his face. The Italian doubted that anyone else would even dare to try.

“I am sorry nonetheless,” Niccolò smiled, lifting Dagon’s hand and squeezing it gently, “and I am forever grateful for your assistance, my friend.” He chuckled at the surprised look on the fish-man’s face.

“When we were in Scotland,” Dagon began, glancing hesitantly at Machiavelli, “you kissed me. Then later, you said that you loved me. Why?”

The Italian felt his face grow hot, “I suppose that I got a bit excited.”

“Ah, excited. An excellent choice of words,” Dagon said, looking at Niccolò pointedly. He put a webbed hand on Machiavelli’s shoulder. It was then that the immortal noticed that his carefully pressed dress shirt was missing, leaving his chest quite bare. His companion’s skin felt smooth against his own.

“What would you say if I kissed you now?” Dagon asked, leaning closer to the Italian. Niccolò’s breath caught in his throat. “I don’t know,” Machiavelli whispered, “To be honest, I never thought that you would.”

“Do you want me to?” the other man questioned, inches away from the Italian’s face. “Yes, I do,” Niccolò said softly. He could feel his heart beating quickly, “But what do you want, Dagon?”

“I want you, Niccolò.”

Then their lips were pressed together, and Machiavelli pulled Dagon down to join him on the bed. He wrapped his legs around the other man as Dagon pinned his arms to the sheets, above his head. They kissed each other feverishly, hungrily. Niccolò opened his mouth slightly, and felt his partner’s tongue push its way inside. Closing his eyes, the Italian moaned quietly as Dagon embraced him.

After a while, Niccolò broke away from the kiss, “That was... intense.”

Dagon gazed back at him, “Is that a good thing?”

“Oh yes,” the Italian chuckled, “Very good.”

“I am glad that we both agree,” the fish-man said, laying down beside Machiavelli on the bed. He wrapped his arms around the immortal. “I hope that we will be doing that again,” Niccolò murmured.

Dagon looked at the Italian, “Is your shoulder alright? You are lucky to have survived the poisons in the creature’s saliva.” Machiavelli glanced at his arm, “Everything seems to be in order. Though it does look like there was some scarring.” Dagon kissed Niccolò’s shoulder gently, making him blush.

“Mmm, that is much better,” Niccolò smiled, moving closer to his partner. He cuddled up to Dagon, as the fish-man held him tightly in his arms.

“So,” Dagon began, “what kind of relationship is this?” Machiavelli looked at him, “What do you mean?”

“I know you, Mac. Everything that you do is carefully calculated to fit with your plans,” the other man said softly, “I want you to tell me where... _this_... fits into your vision for the future.”

Niccolò stared at Dagon, “You think that this is part of some scheme?” His partner shrugged, “You are a cunning man. You prepare for every possibility, and leave nothing up to chance.There would be no reason for you to get close to someone without an ulterior motive.”

Machiavelli felt slightly hurt, “I promise, I have no secrets to keep from you.” Dagon looked unconvinced, “Then tell me what your plan is.”

The Italian sat up, and gazed down at the fish-man, “You ask if this is part of some grand plan of mine for the future? Well, I suppose in a way it is.” Niccolò laid his hand on the side of Dagon’s face, softly caressing his skin, “My plan is to have you by my side forever. Because I could not imagine a future without you, my dear. _Voglio passare il resto della mia vita con te._ ”i

Dagon, shocked into silence, stared unblinking at Machiavelli. The immortal leaned down and kissed him gently. “Do you believe me now, _amore mio_?” he asked. Dagon nodded, “Yes, I think I do, Niccolò.”

“And what about you?” Machiavelli said quietly, “What are your plans?”

His companion thought for a moment, “After my people were destroyed, I did not think much about having a future. Much less having anyone else in that future with me.” He pulled Niccolò close to him again, so that the Italian was resting his head on Dagon’s chest. “But I do love you, Mac,” he murmured, “And I would like to be with you, if you desire this as well.”

“There is nothing that I want more, my dear,” Niccolò said,

Dagon looked at him, glossy eyes contemplative. Laying his hands on Machiavelli’s bare chest, he kissed the immortal, pushing him down onto the bed. Niccolò grinned, wrapping his arms around his partner.

“Are you feeling up to anything else?” Dagon asked the Italian, who felt his face flush at the suggestion.

“I-I don’t, um, I mean...” Niccolò stammered, lost for words. Dagon waited for the other man to gather his thoughts, “Take your time, Mac. You can say no, if you want to.”

Machiavelli gazed at his partner, “Thank you, Dagon. But yes, I would like to take this further.” He chuckled softly, “I just don’t know what to expect.”

“We can go slowly,” Dagon said, kissing Niccolò’s neck gently.

_Ring, ring._

The sound of the telephone made both men jump. “I should probably get that,” Machiavelli grumbled, disappointed. He answered the call, “Who is this?” When he heard the voice on the other end speaking in a Late Egyptian dialect, he froze.

“Master! Yes, we have completed our mission.” He listened to hear the Sun Disk’s reply.

“Deliver it? Yes, I can bring it to you within the next day or so... What? Tonight?”

He glanced over at Dagon, who was looking at him expectantly, “Um, I am a bit... preoccupied at the moment.” His partner covered his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“ _Is it important?_ ” Aten asked, sounding exasperated, “ _I want that artifact as soon as possible._ _If you delay, I expect you to have a very good reason._ ”

Machiavelli bit his lip, “I... um... am with someone right now... and...”

“ _What do you mean?_ ”

Niccolò’s face grew hot, “Well, you see, I was in the middle of something...”

“ _You are not answering my question, Machiavelli._ ”

Dagon tapped Niccolò on the shoulder. “You have to say something,” he whispered.

“ _Who is with you? I heard a voice,_ ” the Sun Disk said. “No one,” Machiavelli said quickly, “Master, I promise that if you give me another day I will bring you what you have requested.”

Aten paused, “ _You have until_ _tomorrow night._ _Be there, or_ _you_ _will not live to see another day._ ”

“I understand,” Machiavelli said, “I will not fail you.”

“ _I know you won’t,_ ” Aten said, “ _Oh, and say hello to Dagon for me. I know he is beside you right now._ _I hope_ _that_ _you are both enjoying yourselves._ ”

“T-thank you, Master.” He hung up the call. Unable to stop himself, he started giggling. Dagon chuckled as well, a gurgling sound deep in his throat. Soon, both men were laughing uncontrollably, holding each other tightly on the bed. “I didn’t know what to say to them!” Niccolò said, burying his face in his hands, “That was ridiculously embarrassing.”

“Better that they call now instead of later,” Dagon said, pulling the Italian closer to him again. “I suppose you are right,” Machiavelli whispered, kissing his partner.

The fish-man wrapped his arms around Niccolò, “Will your master punish you for taking so long with the delivery?”

“I don’t believe that they will,” Machiavelli said, “As long as I don’t forget to do it tomorrow.”

Dagon looked worried, “In that case, I will be sure to remind you to do that.” The Italian laughed, “Thank you, my dear.”

Unbuttoning Dagon’s shirt, Niccolò gently caressed his partner’s chest.

“Now, where were we?”

***

Endnotes:

i “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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